


Interspecies Romance and Its Associated Perils

by suspiciousflashlight



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, One Shot, au i guess, this is the dumbest thing I've ever written I'm so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:09:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4901482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suspiciousflashlight/pseuds/suspiciousflashlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay, but,” says Dean, “okay, see, here’s the thing. We’ve been doing this, uh, this dating thing for a while, right? We’re pretty cool with each other? And—okay, not to pressure you or anything, but I’m just wondering why I’ve never… why you never take off your… why I’ve never seen your, you know. You know?”</p><p>Cas tilts his head a little further. Squints. Opens his mouth. Bites his lip.</p><p>“No,” he says finally. “I don’t know. Could you rephrase the question, please?”</p><p>And this is the problem with dating an angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interspecies Romance and Its Associated Perils

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by an incredible conversation I had with [Chantal](http://pleaseturnoffthedoor.tumblr.com) after showing her [this post](http://hamburgergod.tumblr.com/post/89078738353/sweetsandsheets-anonymous-asked-yooo-haha). This is your fault, Chantal.

“It’s weird, right?” says Dean, fiddling anxiously with the handle on his mug. “It’s not just me? This is genuinely strange?”

It’s bright on the patio where they’re having coffee, enough to make Charlie squint at him as she mulls the question over. “Okay,” she says finally, “talk me through it one more time. You’ve banged him, but you’ve never seen his—?”

“Never,” Dean affirms. “And it’s more like he’s banged me, you know? He’ll blow me, he’ll stick his fingers up my ass, but he won’t take off his goddamned pants. And we’ll be making out, right, and I can feel his boner, I know he’s into it, and I’ll kind of start rubbing him through his jeans and he’s cool with that—but the second I try to go for that zipper it’s like oh, I think I left the stove on or oh, I need to check my email or whatever—”

Charlie snorts. “Seriously? He bailed on sex to check his email?”

“Yeah! And then he made me go sit with him and look through the vacation pictures his mom had sent him!”

“Brutal,” says Charlie.

“Tell me about it. I had a massive boner and I had to sit there pretending to be interested in her blurry safari photos.” Although, to be fair, his hard-on had evaporated relatively quickly after that due to sheer boredom. Turns out vacation slideshows can be nearly as effective as cold showers when it comes to killing the mood. “Anyway—I just, I don’t get it. Clearly he’s pretty into sex in general, but when it comes to me getting him off—”

“Yeah, it’s definitely weird,” Charlie agrees. She takes a pensive sip of her cappuccino. “Maybe it’s an angel thing? Or maybe he’s just, you know, shy. Body-conscious.”

“What, like he’s got a micro-dick?”

“Or weird scars, or something,” she says with a shrug. “Listen, man, you just need to talk to him. Ask him what’s going on. But make sure you pull that whole I-love-you-no-matter-what-and-I-respect-and-treasure-any-potential-flaws-your-body-may-posses thing first, okay?”

“I love you no matter what and I respect any—”

“Respect and treasure, that bit’s important.”

“I love you no matter what and I respect and treasure any potential flaws your body may possess,” Dean repeats. He squeezes his eyes shut and mouths the words silently to himself in an attempt to commit them to memory. Then he downs the last of his coffee, lukewarm and mildly revolting by now, and the legs of his chair scrape against cement as he pushes the chair back and declares, “Okay. I’ve got this. I’m ready.”

Which is kind of true. It’s really true on the walk back to his office, and all through the rest of his afternoon, and even on the bus back to his apartment, to which Cas has a key and where he pretty much lives these days. But it starts becoming exponentially less true when he opens the door to the sound of Cas clattering pans in the kitchen as he makes dinner, forcing Dean to confront the reality of what he’s supposed to be doing and triggering an immediate collapse of his not-so-steely resolve.

That’s on Wednesday. On Saturday, when Cas is sitting at the kitchen counter doing some sketches for a client, Dean gets out of the shower and power-walks into the room before he has a chance to chicken out again, and he says, “Hey, Cas, I’ve been thinking.”

Cas puts down his pencil and looks up from his drawing. “Yes?”

Dean stares at him, and opens his mouth; unfortunately his vocal cords don’t seem to be on board with this, so no sound comes out. He tries once more, with the same result, and then says, “You know what? Never mind,” before slinking off to his room to get dressed.

But Cas follows him, insisting, “No, what were you going to say?”

“Nothing, man. Don’t worry about it.”

“Really? Because you’ve “been thinking” about “nothing”—ah yes, air quotes, Cas’s specialty—“for the past four days, so either you’re lying or you ought to get a PET scan to check for abnormally low brain activity. Which is it? Should I call your doctor?”

“No,” Dean mumbles. He sits down on the edge of the bed, then springs up again immediately when he remembers he’s wearing a wet towel—Cas always bitches at him for getting the linens damp. He goes for the grungy old window seat instead, while Cas arranges himself cross-legged on the duvet facing him.

“Well?” says Cas. “What’s going on?”

“I treasure your flaws, Cas,” Dean begins, and then he frowns. “Wait, shit. I treasure your—I respect your flaws?” Damn. Should’ve written it down. “No, hang on—I love your body?” Okay, close enough. “Yeah, you’ve, uh—you’ve got a great body, man.”

“Thank you?” says Cas, tilting his head a little, like maybe Dean will make more sense at a forty-five degree angle. “Yours is also very, ah… very nice. Fully functional.”

“Okay, but,” says Dean, “okay, see, here’s the thing. We’ve been doing this, uh, this dating thing for a while, right? We’re pretty cool with each other? And—okay, not to pressure you or anything, but I’m just wondering why I’ve never… why you never take off your… why I’ve never seen your, you know. You know?”

Cas tilts his head a little further. Squints. Opens his mouth. Bites his lip.

“No,” he says finally. “I don’t know. Could you rephrase the question, please?”

And this is the problem with dating a goddamned angel. Dean’s trying to have a nice, comfortable, incredibly awkward personal chat here, and Cas is acting like he’s in the middle of a frigging job interview.

Dean says, for want of a better way of putting it, “Is there something wrong with your dick, man?”

There’s a painfully long moment of silence.

“I beg your pardon?” Cas says, somewhat coldly.

Holding his hands up in the universal gesture of yes-I’m-unarmed-and-no-I’m-not-trying-to-cause-any-trouble-officer, Dean says, “Look, I’m not suggesting anything, I’m just—I just want to know, okay? I mean, obviously you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but we’ve been having sex for like three months and I haven’t once seen your junk. So I thought, you know, maybe you were embarrassed about something.”

“Not exactly embarrassed, no,” says Cas. “But…”

“But what? Is it… are you, like, really small?” Based on Dean’s mid-make-out session groping Cas feels pretty average to him, but then it’s not like he’s ever taken the time to whip out a ruler. “Because that’s cool. It’s fine. No big deal.”

“No, it’s not that—”

“You’re really big?” Dean guesses. He rubs the back of his neck, the skin still a little damp from the shower, and laughs nervously. “I mean, that’s cool too, but I’ve got kind of a strong gag reflex, so—”

“My penis is of average size,” Cas assures him.

Which takes a great weight off Dean’s back, even if the original problem has yet to be resolved.

“So what’s the big deal? C’mon, you know I don’t care. I can handle it.”

“I don’t think you understand—”

“Well, no! Because you haven’t told me anything!”

Cas hesitates.

“I, ah… I’m not really sure how to explain it.”

“So just show me!” says Dean. “Cas, we sleep in the same bed, like, four nights a week! I do your laundry! Hell, I’ve spent the weekend with your weird-ass family—at this point I’m not going to get freaked out, okay? I survived Gabriel’s cooking, I’m pretty sure I can take your scaly dragon dick, or whatever you’re keeping down there. Wait, I’ll even—” He tugs off his towel, tossing it vaguely in the direction of the clothes hamper before climbing naked onto Cas’s lap, and Cas rolls his eyes but his hands are already settling instinctively on Dean’s bare hips. “There. Ooh, super sexy, I’m going to do you even though I literally just took a shower so that I could be clean for Sam’s dinner tonight, wow—”

“You can’t guilt me into being turned on,” Cas points out. “That’s not the way it works.”

“Okay, well, what do you want me to do? Lap dance? Nipple tassels? Striptease?”

“You’re already naked. You can’t do a striptease if you don’t have anything to strip off.”

“I could put my clothes back on,” says Dean. He tries some introductory grinding, but Cas’s jeans are rough and he’s kind of worried about chafing. “But, like, in a sexy way.”

“Dean, you fell over this morning because you tried to put both feet through one pant-leg,” says Cas, raising one deeply skeptical eyebrow. But he kisses Dean, which is nice, and then tells him, “You’re an idiot,” which is less nice but also fairly true; and then he slides Dean gently off his lap and starts unbuttoning his jeans.

It’s a weird moment. Somehow Dean feels like he ought to run and get a camera so he can put this in a scrapbook as a monumental relationship milestone. On the other hand, he’s not totally sure he wants Cas’s dick pics next to the future wedding shots that any potential children and/or grandchildren may be looking through one day. Dean contents himself with sliding onto the ground and propping up his elbows across Cas’s knees for the ultimate front-row viewing experience.

Cas braces one hand on the mattress and pushes his hips off the bed, high enough for him to slide his jeans down over his ass. Dean helpfully grabs them at the ankles and pulls them all the way off. Oh, boy. It’s just like Christmas.

So far: grey boxers. Dean’s washed those himself. In fact, judging by the stain by the elastic, he’s spilt bleach on them himself. Not that exciting—this is basically what Cas wears to bed when it’s hot, or when he’s just too lazy to find his PJ pants.

And then Cas slips those boxers down over his hips too, and—

And—

What the fuck. What the actual fuck.

The wounded stare Cas is giving him reveals the fact that, oops, he’s accidentally said that out loud.

“I mean, uh, wow,” he adds hurriedly. “This is… wow. Okay. This is a first.”

“I did tell you I had three pairs of wings.”

“Yeah, no, you did—I just figured the third was like the other two, uh—interplanar, or whatever—”

“Interdimensional.”

“Yeah. Not, uh, you know. Stuck on your dick.”

Cas squirms a little, clearly regretting his decision to go through with this after all. Shit. Apparently Dean isn’t pulling off the whole supportive boyfriend thing as well as he promised. Shit, shit—him and Cas, they’ve got a pretty great thing going on here, and now Dean’s going to screw it all up by being a big, dumb jerk. Which, to be fair, is kind of what he’s best at. Christ, how come his life doesn’t come with a user’s manual?

He sneaks another peak, because he kind of can’t help himself. It’s like passing a catastrophic car accident on the highway—impossible to look away. Oh, great, he’s just compared his boyfriend’s junk to a ten-car pile up. This supportive boyfriend thing is really, really not happening.

Actually, once you get over the initial shock of seeing a winged penis, it’s sort of… cute. Not scaly or anything, like Dean half-jokingly suggested a few minutes ago—in fact it’s basically normal, aside from the pair of little black wings growing out of the base, currently neatly furled on either side of his limp dick. Like a small bird. A small, fleshy, tubular bird.

“Can you… can you actually fly with these?” Dean asks, and he tries to suppress the mental image of Cas propelling himself through the air dick-first.

“No,” says Cas, which is a great relief. “They don’t serve any functional purpose that I know of. My brothers and I suspect they’re somewhat vestigial.”

Well, at least it’s a family trait, then. Does that make it better or worse? He’s not sure he’ll ever be able to look Gabriel (or Michael or Balthazar or Uriel or Raphael or Bartholomew or Samandriel or the ever-creepy Lucifer) in the face again. And what about Cas’s sisters? Are the girls’ genitalia similarly decked out for takeoff? Something tells him it’s better not to ask.

“Can I…?” Dean says, finishing the sentence with an ambiguous wiggly hand gesture. Cas nods.

Ordinarily this is when Dean would start pulling out all his best moves, because first impressions are sacred and it’s generally reassuring to be able to tell that the guy whose teeth are worryingly close to your dick does in fact have some idea what he’s doing down there. For various reasons, however, he’s a little off his game at the moment. Instead he just reaches out and touches the wings, which are smooth and kind of silky and a little bit warm. He finds the tips with his fingers and tugs gently until they start to extend.

It’s… okay, it’s weird. They’re real wings, with bones and tendons and muscles and feathers and all that. Real wings growing out of his boyfriend’s dick. But they’re also kind of pretty, black but almost iridescent, like gasoline on dark water.

Cas twitches a little, thighs tensing up visibly.

“Oh, sorry,” Dean says, letting go of the wings quickly. “Did that hurt? My bad.”

“It didn’t hurt,” says Cas, who kicks off his underwear and hooks his legs around Dean’s back.

“But you—” says Dean, and then he looks down again, and Cas’s dick has gone from killed-by-the-neighbour’s-cat dead bird to a slightly more interested did-someone-just-sprinkle-breadcrumbs-on-the-sidewalk hungry bird and, okay, it’s probably best to stop thinking in metaphors. He’s trying to have sex here, not take a trip to the fucking zoo. “Oh. I get it. Okay. Cool.”

The wings give a hopeful flutter.

There are, as they soon discover, a few kinks to be worked out. Not the sexy kind, either. More like the kind where Cas sort of loses motor function when he gets too worked up, and there is something deeply unnerving about having a pair of black wings with a combined span of about a foot flapping frantically less than an inch from your face. Especially because, as Dean learns the hard way, those things are deceptively strong.

“Sorry,” Cas says for the millionth time later that evening, when they’re standing on Sam’s front porch waiting for him to answer the door. “I really didn’t mean to—”

“Cas, it’s fine.” Or it will be in a few days, hopefully. And until then it’ll probably be enough to guilt Cas into cooking dinner for him.

The door opens and Sam, in all his eight feet of floppy-haired splendor, says, “Hey, guys, come on in,” and then he freezes for a second and says, “Oh my God, Dean, what the hell happened to your eye?”

Gingerly Dean touches his eye, which is still throbbing painfully and already starting to bruise. “This? Oh, I just tripped,” he lies, grinning. “Smacked myself on the coffee table. Stupid, huh?”

Dinner goes great until somewhere around the end of the main course, when Dean puts down his fork and sticks a finger in his mouth to dislodge a bit of fishbone that’s gotten stuck between his back molars; except it’s not a fishbone, it’s the barb of a tiny black semiplume feather. He meets Cas’s eyes across the table, and then finds himself having to look hurriedly away.


End file.
